I said, “So in a way you’re actually hoping this Lieutenant Santarun will be snatched?”
“I know it seems crazy to hope that the CIA does have some kind of security leak, but we are. That will be a hell of a lot easier to deal with. But either way, we have to find out. We have to know for sure.”
There was still something else on Fizer’s mind, but he didn’t need any nudging now. I gave him time, and after a thoughtful moment he said:
“Do you know what we’re scared of, Dusky? If those agents have turned renegade, we’re afraid that they’re going for the biggest game of all. And if they succeed, it’ll mean there are going to be a hell of a lot of bodies floating around Mariel Harbor. American bodies. And maybe even a world war. Dusky, we’re afraid those agents have plans to assassinate Fidel Castro. . . .”
4
I first got suspicious of the television film crew when they followed me from the fuel docks down to the old submarine base at Trumbo Annex.
Two Cuban-looking guys. The one shouldering the camera pack was the bigger of the two. Black hair combed back. Open shirt with gold chains and unicorn horns curving through the thatch of black chest hair. A snappy dresser who didn’t spend enough time looking through his viewfinder. He spent too much time eyeing me as I topped off my tanks with diesel fuel and loaded on the big blocks of ice for the long trip to Mariel Harbor.
So Fizer had finally convinced me.
Three agents might have gone bad. They might have shelved their duties to get a chance at putting a bullet through Fidel’s beard. Or maybe there was just a rotten egg in the hallowed halls of the CIA.
Either way, I had spent the afternoon after Norm buzzed off in his whirlybird battering myself with recriminations. Why in the hell had I given in so easily? I played with the idea of trying to back out; supported the idea with the rationale that I was letting Fizer’s little super-secret organization of troubleshooters run my life.
After all, when had he called that I hadn’t jumped to answer?
Not since the nasty job on Cuda Key—and that is never.
So I had spent a tawny, late day in April getting the stilthouse squared away, storing this, locking that, bitching at myself all the while for giving in too easily.
But finally, I had to admit it to myself. I was actually relieved.
How many days could I have spent alone on my shack upon the sea?
Maybe a week. Maybe two. But then I would have gotten antsy, anxious for another mission.
So now I had one.
Too early, maybe.
But in the deepest part of me, I was glad. Because once you know the strange dark joy of a dangerous job, you can never be satisfied without it.
And I had been hooked long ago. Maybe even as a kid, working the trapeze in the circus; knowing that the slightest mistake could mean death. And once you have lived in the deadly glimmer of the razor’s edge, everything else seems pallid in comparison.
The only thing that really bothered me was having to work with a stranger—one Lieutenant Santarun, an unknown factor. Fizer didn’t know much about him—only that it was Santarun who had presented the theory that the three agents might have assassination in mind. Nothing concrete, Fizer had said. Just a hunch. But a hunch that had to be pursued. So I was to be the slightly stupid charterboat captain out to make a few quick bucks, and Santarun was to be a Cuban-American citizen in search of relatives.
Unless things got rough. Too rough for Santarun. And then—and only then—could I come from the safe cover of anonymity. For me, it meant leaving at home the obvious offensive weapons of the professional killer: the brutal AK-47 Russian assault rifle I had smuggled back from Nam, and the Navy-issue .45 of my SEAL days. But as a SEAL I had been trained to recognize the options, and make those options damned deadly. And aboard, I carried options enough.
At the fuel docks, it was the guy carrying the camera pack who first got me suspicious. As I said, he spent too much time watching me and not enough time looking through his viewfinder. Even so, he kept the lens of the remote unit trained on me—even while his partner, a stocky guy with the plastic grooming of an anchorman, seemed to be interviewing another charterboat captain fixing to leave for Mariel Harbor.
So I ignored it at first. Just pulled on my aviator Polaroids and tugged my old khaki fishing cap with the long visor down over my ears while I finished fueling. After all, the film-at-eleven newshounds hadn’t been exactly strangers in Key West lately. The motels were full of them, all strutting up and down Duval, wearing their press tags, looking bored and officious and getting sloppy drunk on expense accounts. The exodus of refugees from Mariel Harbor had brought them on the run to Key West with the same fervor of a shyster lawyer chasing an ambulance. Blood is news. And news is money.
So I ignored them while I paid Harry at the docks for my four hundred gallons of diesel, then throttled Sniper on down to the cement wharves at the old submarine base where I was to meet Fizer and pick up Santarun.
And by the time I had thrown a couple of half hitches around the big brass bollards, the two of them were there again, pulling into the parking lot in their rental Chevy. I watched the biggest one as he put a fix on me from the corner of his eye while the smaller one rounded up a couple of weary-looking Cuban-American men to interview. Same ploy.
The short, stocky one held the microphone in the face of his “interviewee” while the remote unit swept across me and Sniper.
It didn’t make any sense. They had to have proper press credentials or the guard wouldn’t have let them on the naval base. But why in the hell would anyone want film of me?
I didn’t like it. Not a bit. So I went below and began stowing away the boxes of canned goods and beer I had brought for the trip, giving them time to make a move. Key West seems to get stranger and stranger every year; an island that has become so gaudily faddish, so populated with the weird and undecipherable that you stop trying to find motive in the actions of others. Overhead, I could hear the chopping ignitions of a Coast Guard helicopter—escorting in another load of refugees, probably. And from the nearby docks where the immigration people were processing the new arrivals came the frenzied, heartfelt chant:
Libertad, libertad, LIBERTAD . . .
Through the starboard port I could see the refugees standing in a long line across the docks, barefoot and worn by their struggles to get out of Cuba, but smiling as they chanted in the heat of the afternoon sun.
I watched them, wondering all the while if America would, indeed, become the land of liberty for them. And as I wondered, I wished them well—all but the Castro agents I knew stood among them; those who had come to America seeking nothing but the opportunity to destroy.
Back on the wide cement loading runway which fronted Trumbo Annex, the two Cuban guys with the television equipment were still at it. They moved among the steady rush of the departing and the arriving, conspicuously staying within viewing distance of me and Sniper—and equally as conspicuously trying to pretend as if they weren’t.
I climbed up on the wharf and began to amble toward them. I still had about fifteen minutes before Fizer was supposed to arrive with Santarun, and I had decided to make the most of it. When the big guy with the gold chains and the vee of black chest thatch saw me coming, he immediately swerved the camera away, trying to ignore me. About ten feet from them I stopped, studied the sky, studied my worn Topsiders, a sham attempt to look inconspicuous, turning the tables on them. The stocky anchorman was interviewing an elderly man who, apparently, had just arrived. The exchange was in rapid Spanish. I don’t know why, but people who speak Spanish seem to talk faster and louder than people who speak other languages.
So I had no problem hearing what they were saying, and, even with my bad Spanish, understanding what they were talking about.
Typical broadcast questions. And typical broadcast answers.
But that still didn’t explain why they had been trying to get some film of me and my vessel.
But they
would explain.
You could bet the bank on that.
The big guy with the gold chains was all attention now, focusing through the viewfinder, watching his squat companion work.
They knew I was only ten or fifteen feet away.
You’re damn right they knew.
I watched them for a while, saying nothing, then my eyes caught the progress of an emaciated stray dog weaving along the docks. Too many stray dogs in Key West. The hippy kids and the drug lovers all come to Key West with a dog because they think the presence of a big pet suggests that they are sensitive, humane.
They’re humane, all right—until the pet inconveniences them in some way, or they have a chance to go cruising. And then it’s goodbye pet. They let the dogs loose then, ignoring the fact that stray dogs don’t live long on a island teeming with heartworms, fast traffic, and crowded pounds.
This dog was some mixture of shepherd and collie; a fine, tall dog so skinny that his loose skin hung upon his ribs. He came angling across the wharf, tongue out, eyes glassy, then suddenly cut between the two Cubans—ruining, apparently, the camera shot.
“Oye! Perra . . . remara!”
The big guy with the camera pack gave the stray a solid kick in the stomach, tumbling it. The dog whimpered, got back up, and trotted off, not even bothering to look back. Its tongue was still out, its eyes still glassy.
I squatted down, and the dog came weaving toward me. It hesitated, then allowed me to scratch its ears, finally relaxing beneath my hands.
Tough life, hey partner?
He looked up into my eyes seeming to answer, then nudged my arm with his nose. It was wearing one of those cheap leather collars with no identification tag, and the collar was so tight that it had grown into the skin around the neck. I took out my Gerber belt knife, cut the collar, and pulled it gently away. The dog’s tail thumped his gratitude. I looked over toward the two television guys.
“Hey!”
They pretended to ignore me. The old man was gone now, and the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, conferring.
“Hey, you! Cabrón!”
The Spanish insult brought the big guy whirling around. He glared at me, then looked quickly away.
“How would you like someone to kick you in the stomach?”
The two of them pretended not to hear me, then moved toward the stairs of the old barracks on the wharf where the public restrooms are located. I watched them head up the steps, then quickly walked my starving friend back to Sniper, opened up two big cans of stew, and in another bowl put some water beside him on the dock.
I’ll be back in a minute to see if you want dessert.
The dog stopped wolfing the food only long enough to watch me head for the old barracks.
The hundred-watt bulb which lighted the stairway was unshaded; and the halls of the deserted building were littered with trash and cigarette butts. There was anti-Castro graffiti on the walls, and someone with a belly full of yellow rice and beer hadn’t quite made it to a suitable place to upchuck.
All compliments of the wave of humanity attracted by the Freedom Flotilla.
I moved quietly up the cement stairs, holding the railing, taking my time.
At the top of the stairs on the second floor I could hear muted Spanish coming from beyond the door of the public restroom. I put my ear to the door and listened, deciphering only bits and pieces of the conversation; a word here, and a word there. But then one word in particular caught my attention:
“. . . MacMorgan . . .”
So they did know who I was.
And they had been following me.
I waited for a moment longer, listening, then pushed open the door. The shock on their faces was apparent, but immediately stifled by looks of contrived disinterest. I went ambling up to the biggest of them, smiling my best smile, trying to look small and friendly and harmless.
But I wasn’t feeling harmless.
Maybe these two characters were the tail end of the CIA’s security leak.
Maybe my identity as one of Stormin’ Norman Fizer’s troubleshooters was no secret after all.
The big guy with the gold chains had a sharp, angular face with black feral eyes and a mustache that had enjoyed a lifetime of vanity and expensive wax. The smaller one, the anchorman, stood behind him, his shoulder to me—afraid to ignore my entrance completely. He wore a burnt-orange blazer which said “TV 1” on the lapel.
“Geez,” I said, “are you guys really gonna put my picture on television?” I was still moving toward the big guy, the one who had kicked the dog.
“No habla,” he said.
But his eyes told me that he had understood.
“I saw you aiming that camera at me, and I just wanted to ask what time I’m gonna be on, ’cause I sure don’t want to miss it.”
“No habla!”
The big guy was still backing up, but he didn’t look frightened. If anything, his face showed contempt.
The bright-blue news camera with its shoulder brace rested against the metal booth which contained the stool, and I stood between the camera and the two Cubans. The urinal was behind them, and the big guy looked as if he was tired of backing up anyway. He might have been an inch taller than me, but I had the weight.
And either way, it didn’t matter.
Still bearing my stupid smile, I reached down deliberately and hefted the camera up with my left hand.
“This sure is some fancy setup.”
“Get your hands off that!”
It was the big guy with the gold chains.
“Well, you sure do learn English fast,” I said innocently. He took a step toward me, and I stopped him with a glare. I began to fiddle with the butterfly screws on the side of the camera, talking all the while. “You know when you two first pissed me off?”
They said nothing.
“You first pissed me off when you were filming me down at the fuel docks and didn’t even have the courtesy to try and interview me first.”
One of the butterfly screws went twisting across the floor.
“Hey, dammit, there’s film in there!”
I cut the big guy off. “I mean, why would you two want my picture and no sound to go with it?”
“I don’t know what your problem is, mister, but if you expose that film we’re going to the police!”
I ignored him, still working on the second screw. “And do you know when you really pissed me off? It was when you kicked that poor stray dog. I just can’t tell you how mad it makes me to see a grown man kick some poor defenseless animal.
“But do you know what your mistake was?” The final screw came off, and in one swift motion, I jerked the film cassette out, kicked the john door open, and tossed the film into the stool. “Your big mistake, cabrón, was that that dog wasn’t defenseless. Because I’ve just appointed myself as his honorary bodyguard.”
The big guy with the gold chains was better than I thought he’d be.
I expected him to shove me. Or take a big roundhouse swing at me.
That’s what the inexperienced ones usually do. They’re reluctant to fight, or they want to immediately go for a knockout like the hero of a western movie does it.
But this guy, obviously, was not what you would call inexperienced.
He faked a big right hand, and when I leaned away from it he drove his left foot up in a snapping upper-cut kick.
Luckily, I got most of it with my shoulder.
The anchorman acted like he wanted to get behind me—maybe just to escape, or maybe to try and get a crack at the back of my head.
I couldn’t wait to find out. I cocked my left fist back, looking at the big cameraman all the while, then let the anchorman have a full—and completely unexpected—right to the solar plexus, that vulnerable center of nerve endings and tissue located below the soft veeing of the rib cage.
He went down with a loud oomph, kicking his legs wildly like a cartoon character overcome with laughter.
“What the hell is t
his all about?” The big guy’s Spanish accent was much stronger with emotion now. He eyed his friend nervously, reluctant to take his attention completely off me. “It was just a goddam dog.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Why were you filming me?”
“I wasn’t filming you.”
I slapped him with forehand and backhand across the face, backing him up to the urinal. “Not polite to lie,” I said evenly.
His face was red with slapping, and his forehead was white, leached of blood. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”
Waiting for him to explain, I relaxed. A stupid thing to do. I was off guard just enough so that his next snapping kick caught me full in the kidney and sent me wheeling against the wall.
He was on me in a second, choosing to go with some nasty infighting. He was big and tough and strong. But not strong enough. You never want to wrestle shoulder to shoulder with someone who spent his boyhood working the double trapeze.
It’s just not healthy.
I got my fingers wrapped around his biceps, squeezing, swinging him back and forth at will. In any fight there comes a moment—long before the fight has ended, usually—when one man realizes that he is overmatched and bound to lose.
In the ring, the victim of the sudden insight sets about not trying to win, but only to lose more slowly.
In a street fight, he tries to get the hell away.
And that’s what the big cameraman tried now. He twisted away from me, took a long, lurching step toward the door, then came to an abrupt, ripping halt when I grabbed him by the back of his silk shirt.
My hands on his shoulders, I swung him around, nailed him full-fisted on the side of the neck, and he went backpedaling across the room, crashing into the urinal.
Water from the broken urinal was spraying everywhere. From outside, I could hear the forlorn blast of whistle signals and the moist proppa-proppa-pop of the Coast Guard choppers escorting in boatloads of refugees. In the strange clarity of the moment, it seemed as if I were back in Nam.
Cuban Death-Lift Page 4